THE PASSING OF THE STORM
Marten's hand closed round the butt of the pistol, and, during a few
seconds, Power thought that he was a doomed man. Even in England, a land
where deeds of violence are not condoned by lawless unwritten law, he
knew he was in deadly peril. If Marten shot him, there was reasonable
probability that punishment might not follow the crime. His own actions
would bear out the contention that Marten had killed him in
self-defense. He had palpably forced his way in; the warning letter from
the New York lawyers would count against him; legal ingenuity could
twist in Marten's favor the very means he was using to safeguard Nancy's
child. But he did not fear death. Rather did he look on it as the
supreme atonement. "Greater love hath no man than this, that he lay down
his life for his friend," and, in giving his life for an innocent girl,
he was surely obeying her mother's last request.
But Marten, still clutching the pistol--a modern weapon of fearsome
effect when fired in conditions which made faulty aim impossible--seemed
to be marshaling his disrupted thoughts. His eyes were veiled, his body
was bent as though old age had suddenly beset him; but the ivory-white
of cheeks and forehead was yielding slowly to the quickening of the
arteries caused by the recent struggle.
At last he looked at Power, and may have been surprised by the discovery
that his adversary, though standing within a yard of him, obviously
disregarded his presence, and was, in fact, staring through a window at
the far horizon of the blue Atlantic.
For the first time he was aware of an expression in Power's face that
was baffling, almost unnerving. Suffering, pity, sympathy,
well-doing--these essentials had never found lodgment in his own nature,
and their legible imprint on another's features was foreign to his eyes.
He was wholly self-centered, self-contained. To his material mind men
and women were mere elements in the alchemy of gold-making; yet here
stood one who had never sought the gross treasures which earth seemed to
delight in showering on him. And he could win what Marten had never
won--love. That thought rankled. Already Nancy was yielding to his
influence. Unless----
He replaced the pistol in the drawer where it was kept, ever within
reach--he had ruined opponents by the score, and some were vengeful. The
movement awoke Power from a species of trance, and their eyes met.
"You win," said Marten laconically.
Power sat down again. The simplicity of his self-effacement almost
bewildered the other, on whom the knowledge was forced that, had he
raised and pointed the death-dealing weapon, his enemy would have
disregarded him.
"I want to ask you a few questions," he continued bruskly. "I suppose
you and I can afford now to tell each other the naked truth. Why are
you raising all this commotion after twenty years?"
"I am only fulfilling the mandate given in--in your wife's last letter."
"My wife. You admit, then, that she _was_ my wife?"
Power did not answer, and Marten tingled with the quick suspicion that
he was opening up the very line of inquiry in which he was most
vulnerable.
"Anyhow, let us endeavor to forget what happened twenty years ago," he
went on, affecting a generosity of sentiment he was far from feeling.
"What I wish to understand is this--how do you reconcile your regret, or
repentance, or whatever you choose to call it, for bygone deeds, with
your attempt now to come between me and my daughter. Yes, damn you,
whatever you may say or do, you cannot rob me of the nineteen years of
affection which at least one person in the world has given me!"
Power passed unheeded that sudden flame of passionate resentment.
"It is natural, in a sense, that you should misread the actual course of
events," he said. "You may not be aware that I have been a constant
visitor to this part of Devonshire during many years, and that, in
hiring Valescure, you were really seeking me instead of me, as you
imagine, seeking you. I met Nancy by accident. We became friends. It was
the impulse of a girl deprived of the one adviser in whom she should
have complete trust that led her to confide in me."
"What do you mean by that?"
"You, her loved and honored father, were using your authority to force
her into a hated marriage."
"I didn't treat matters so seriously. I never heard of this young
Lindsay as a candidate before last week."
"Had you taken a tenth part of the trouble it has cost me, you would
have ascertained that the Principe del Montecastello was about as
suitable a mate for Nancy as a carrion crow for a linnet."
"He was a bit wild in his youth, but would become a model husband. I
know that type of man well. At fifty he would be taking the chair at
rescue meetings."
Again Power remained silent, and Marten was obliged to reopen the
discussion.
"I'll get rid of Montecastello," he said, and his voice had the metallic
rasp of a file in it. "I'll undertake, too, that my daughter shall be
free to marry Philip Lindsay, or any other man of her choice. I suppose
it will be Lindsay. I'll invite him here, and make up for my rather
emphatic dismissal the other day. But if you impose terms, so do I. To
avoid a scandal, to keep my daughter's love during the remaining years
of my life, I yield to you on the major point. On my side, I stipulate
that not one penny of your money goes to either Lindsay or Nancy. They
must owe everything to me, not to you. Further, you must undertake to go
out of my daughter's life completely. You have contrived to do that in
the past; you must manage it in the future as well."
"You mean that I am never voluntarily to see or speak to her again?"
"Yes."
"I promise that."
Power spoke in a low tone, but a note of unutterable sadness crept into
the words. Even his bitter and resentful hearer caught some hint of
anguish, of final abandonment, of a dream that was dispelled.
"Now, about these papers," he said, striving to assume a business-like
air. "I shall write to Mowlem & Son telling them that the Willard trust
has attained its object. Sometime I shall endeavor personally to get
them to hand over any document in their possession. They are only
agents. They can be bought. As to these," and he tapped the sheets in
Power's handwriting, "I shall keep them until you have carried out your
share of the deal."
"Better not. You may die suddenly. Then they would be found."
"Die, may I? And what about you?"
"I shall not die until the future of Nancy's child is assured. In any
event, I have taken steps to safeguard her secret."
Marten hesitated. Ultimately he applied a lighted match to the papers,
threw them into a grate, and watched them burn and curl up in black
spirals. When they were still ablaze he gathered the bits of crackling
heather, and burnt them, too.
"That, then, is the end," he said.
"The beginning of the end," said Power, turning to leave the room. It
was a very large apartment, and there were windows at each end. Through
those on the landward side he saw Nancy riding toward the gates in
company with a young married couple who had joined the house party
recently.
"With your permission, I will wait a few minutes," he said. "Your
daughter is just crossing the park; but she will soon be out of sight.
I'll dismiss my carriage, and walk home by the cliff path."
"Your" daughter. So he really meant to keep his word in letter and
spirit! Marten thought him a strange man, a visionary. He had never met
such another--undoubtedly, he was half mad!
In a little while Power walked out. Then Marten noticed, for the first
time, that he moved with a slight limp; the result of some accident, no
doubt. Curse him, why wasn't he killed? Then Nancy Marten would have
become a princess, with no small likelihood of occupying a throne. For
that was Marten's carefully planned scheme. A certain principality was
practically in the market. It could be had for money. Money would do
anything--almost anything. Today money had failed!
* * * * *
Power planned to take MacGonigal by surprise. He wrote with purposed
vagueness as to his arrival in London, meaning to drop in on his stout
friend unexpectedly. He arrived about six o'clock in the evening at the
big hotel where Mac was installed, and was informed that "Mr.
MacGonigal" was out, but might return at any moment. He secured a suite
of rooms, and was crossing the entrance hall, with no other intent than
to sit there and await Mac's appearance, when he almost cannoned against
a woman--a woman with lustrous, penetrating brown eyes. What was worse,
he stood stock still, and stared at her in a way that might well evoke
her indignation.
But, if she was annoyed, she masked her feelings under an amused smile.
"You don't recall me, of course, Mr. Power," she said; "but I remember
you quite well--even after twenty years!"
"Meg!" he cried.
She reddened somewhat. Though wearing a hat and an out-of-doors costume,
she was unveiled, and there was no trace of scar or disfigurement on her
face.
"Marguerite Sinclair, at any rate," she answered.
"Sent here by the gods!" he muttered.
"Your gods are false gods, Mr. Power. I, for one, don't recognize them
as guides."
"Marguerite Sinclair!" he went on. "So you are unmarried?"
"And you?" she retorted.
"I? I am free, at last."
"Free?"
"Yes. Come with me. We can find a seat somewhere. If you have any
engagement, you must break it."
She dropped her veil hurriedly. If there are tears in a woman's eyes,
she does not care to have the fact noticed while she is crossing the
crowded foyer of a hotel. Manlike, Power attributed her action to the
wrong cause.
"Why hide your face?" he said, striving hard to control an unaccountable
tremolo in his voice. "What have you been doing? Praying at Lourdes?"
She did not pretend to misunderstand: "A French doctor worked this
particular miracle. The chief ingredients were some months of suffering
and the skin of eggs. It was not vanity on my part. I was tired of the
world's pity."
"Then, thank Heaven, I loved you before your scientist doubled your good
looks!"
They had found two chairs in a palm-shaded corner, and Marguerite raised
her veil again. Then he saw why she had lowered it.
"Derry," she said, and her lips quivered, "why were you so cruel?"
"I'll tell you. May I?"
"Not now. I couldn't bear it."
"Can you bear being told that I have never ceased to love you--that you
have dwelt constantly in my thoughts during all these slow years?"
She bent her head. For a long time neither spoke. Plucking at a glove,
she revealed a ring on her left hand--his ring! Then Power began his
confession. He did not tell her everything--that was impossible. Nor was
it necessary. In the first moment of their meeting he had said what she
had been waiting thirteen long years to hear.
So, as the outcome, it was MacGonigal who surprised Power. A clerk at
the key office gave him the name of the gentleman who had been inquiring
for him, and, although taken aback by finding Power deep in talk with a
lady, Mac "butted in" joyously.
The two stood up, and Power took his friend's hand.
"Mac," he said, "this is Miss Marguerite Sinclair. You'll soon be well
acquainted with her. She becomes Marguerite Power at the earliest
possible date."
Now, MacGonigal had formed his own conclusions, owing to the urgency of
the message for that sealed packet. Anxiety, and not a desire to see
life, had drawn him from his shell in Bison. Power's words had answered
many unspoken questions, solved all manner of doubts. His face shone,
his big eyes bulged alarmingly. He mopped a shining forehead with, alas!
a red handkerchief.
"Wall, ef I ain't dog-goned!" he vowed. "But I'm glad, mighty glad.
You've worried me, Derry, an' that's a fact." He turned to Marguerite,
little guessing how well she knew him. "Bring him to the ranch, Ma'am,
an' keep him thar!" he said. "It'll look like home when you come along.
An' that's what he wants--a home. I don't know whar he met you, nor
when, but I kin tell you this--he's been like a lost dog fer thirteen
years, an' it's time he was fixed with a collar an' chain. Anyhow, when
he's had a good look at you, he'll not need the chain."
"Mac," said the woman with the shining eyes, "you're a dear!"
And from that moment the firm of Power and MacGonigal acquired another
partner.
THE END